


To Marry a Machine

by Irena_Lyre



Series: 2895 [2]
Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cloud Atlas-inspired AU, Dystopia, F/M, Gen, John is a clone, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irena_Lyre/pseuds/Irena_Lyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is now 2896. In a world that runs on clone slavery, John~001 was produced under the commission of Professor Moriarty to observe the genius mind of Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock broke him, sort of.<br/>Sequel to <em>To Kiss a Machine</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of Bound

**Author's Note:**

> *casually attempts to wrap up WiP’s before losing all my interest in this show* Bye BBC canon! I build my own ship now.  
> The plot and characters of this story were conceived mid-2013, therefore conveniently free from any (twisted) S3 sentiments.  
> Update: changed the title. It makes better sense, you'll see.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lives in a bubble. At least he _lives_.

Despite the supposedly superior learning capacities that Moran has endowed him, John has not come to comprehend the enormous amount of gratification generated by the simple act of holding hands. Maybe it has to do with Sherlock’s graceful long fingers that fit surprisingly well in his own considerably smaller palm. Any other public display of affection would be redundant, when a gentle squeeze shoots up more endorphin to his brain than all the rewards from the M-Lab combined. That’s probably why Sherlock doesn’t wear his gloves anymore.

Scotland Yard, on the other hand, is not a bit blown away by the _sudden_ development. As they walk in, Lestrade even gives Sherlock a little pat on the back. _Is that a wink?_ John frowns slightly, though he doesn’t really mind. Whatever it is, Sherlock acknowledges it with a half-grin, before turning to grimmer matters.

“Yes, you’re hearing me say it, I’ve made a mistake. The last series of murders needs to be reworked, all of it.”

“What series?” Lestrade scratches his grey hair. He already hears the universal groan of dismay across the Department.

\---

 

The renewed investigation has involved more interviewing and questioning than running around, but John is disproportionately exhausted at the end of the day. Even back in the comfy surroundings of their flat he cannot un-see the animal-pen of a cell that’s holding Sarah~074 in custody – no, _animals_ enjoy more rights in this time and age. Unlike the two Citizens under conviction, there will be no defence or appeal procedure for a clone. In fact, termination may have been carried out _already_ , were it not for the sluggish administration, and Sherlock’s swift intervention. _Ah, the rightful fate of your lot,_ echoes the familiar voice of Professor Moriarty. John shudders.

“We’ll get her out.” Sherlock says calmly.

“Yeah, we should.” John nods with a stronger resolution than his confidence in the time it would take, or the helpfulness of his own presence. “It was… hot in there.”

“I thought it was hot when you ripped your shirt off the other day.”

Amused by the abrupt change of subject, John turns his head. “Really, should’ve done it sooner then.”

“Yes you should have, idiot.”

John responds by pinning Sherlock to the wall, a hand on his collar. “Fine, try keep talking like that, I’ll stop you.”

Before their lips could meet, the tapping on the door announces its urgency. _An umbrella._ Sherlock growls, as John straightens his shirt and whispers to his ear, “ _later._ ”

\---

 

Mycroft withholds a sigh when he meets the eyes of his younger brother, the giddiness of infatuation all too prominent. _Not an advantage._ He turns to inspect the more collected _flatmate_ , the full body scan of whom he has scrutinised since day one. Fortunate enough for a fabricant, the physical functions of John~001 were merely enhanced, not mutilated, save only for the controlling insertions. To find consolation in the design of the M-Lab is alarming, in itself.

“Sugar?” Said fabricant is now playing host. Mycroft takes the tea, smiling somewhat bitterly.

“Thank you, John. In fact, the very purpose of my visit today is to present you the updated information about the s-field.”

Sherlock sits up a little more tightly. “Do go on,” he huffs.

“Please be reminded of the time I spoke of unspecified risk, when I initiated its employment.” Mycroft glances at John, whose unease is mostly caused by Sherlock’s concern instead of his words. “Now, at my request the physiological effect of its signal has been studied most extensively. It is revealed that the most vulnerable organ to the radiation is indeed the brain, as previously believed; moreover, the potential for damage increases _exponentially_ with the level of brain activity.”

John shifts instantly, almost jolting to the other corner of the flat opposite of where Sherlock is seated. The sleek little gadget in his pocket, a _life-saver_ , now burns against his skin. He has not sussed out what the assessment means exactly, but it sounds a bit not good. He sees his suspicion confirmed by Sherlock sinking into the chair, his face grave.

“In simpler terms, the signal does little harm to the stupid or idle, but a high-functioning busy mind in its range has much to fear.” The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirks as he fixes his eyes on John again. “In the absence of the following information you have demonstrated rather adequate instincts, John: that in compensation, the power of the signal decreases also exponentially with _distance_. Given the setting of your particular device, the area outside of a 0.5m radius would be safe enough. An arm’s length, actually. Please do come closer; but not _too close_.”

John does not move. He would move out of the Solar System if he could.

“Give me the numbers,” Sherlock leans forward, his fingers clenching at the textile of the chair. “How good is _your_ research anyway?”

“At a high confidence level, with repeated experiments. You know whom to ask for the full report if you care to check.” Mycroft’s chest falls with a long exhale, a tinge of regret in his voice. “The peril of the signal lies in its intensity required to serve as a shield. While the effect of previous sporadic exposure may be negligible, to have it on 24/7 is surely a different matter. Security comes at a price, Sherlock, as with everything else. Be glad that the price is no greater than keeping a… polite distance.”

John looks to Sherlock, who is looking at him likewise, with an unspoken desperation in his eyes. The shield that keeps his petty life is materialising around him, trapping him in a bubble of untouchability. Like an animal-pen.

_Ah, the rightful fate of your lot._

“Fix it, Mycroft, I ask of you.” Sherlock pushes up from the armchair, his demand composed and icy overhead of his brother. “This is the best your people can come up with?”

Mycroft does not look up. “Oh yes, far from satisfactory, isn’t it? Woe is me that some of our most promising talents have deviated from research.”

When there is no response other than Sherlock’s roll of eyes, Mycroft drains his tea and recollects his umbrella. John’s eyes trail after his footsteps, the tension in the room departing with him. Without a further thought, he is rushing after the Government.

“Stay away,” John warns, before Sherlock could follow.

\---

 

“I am stopping at an arm’s length, Mr. Holmes, don’t be alarmed.” Outside of the apartment, John calls out from still a few steps away.

“I fully expect you to.” Mycroft turns around. John knows he _waited_.

From the very polite distance, John stretches out his steady palm, where the s-field generator is nested. The little blue light that emits Salvation is beaming sinisterly. “Could you, erm, turn it down a little bit?”

“Has Moran not installed Signal Processing 101 in you?” John grimaces at the name. “To turn down the interference signal is to increase your exposure – to immediate death. Sherlock will not have it. I regret to admit that it will upset him greatly, should you _expire_ at this point.” Mycroft’s gaze is slightly unsettling, as if trying to find what his brother has found in this _fabricant_. “The attachment is a choice of his own, and I concede.”

John stares back. A shadow of sadness rests on the brows of the man that’s supposed to be unmoved. “In simpler terms, you could have just gotten rid of me for your peace of mind, but you chose not to.”

“Why, yes, John, the level of your brain activity exceeds my expectation.” Mycroft strokes his chin appreciatively. “I hope the benefit of the signal still outweighs the possible harm to your own person.”

“It’s not like I get to choose.” John chuckles, pocketing the indispensable metallic patch. “But - thank you, I mean it.”

However wretched this existence is, it’s worth it. _For the case, John._ There are more lives at stake than his own.

_Only if he can truly stay out of Sherlock’s reach._

Mycroft’s lips tighten briefly before he gets into the jet-car. John takes it as a smile.

\---

 

A melancholy air hangs over the M-Lab, as Moriarty paces back and forth in front of five gigantic blacked-out monitors. A very long report scrolls itself silently on his own screen.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” He mutters. “What have I done, _what have I done._ ”

“An assessment by the Government is not always a reliable -” Moran interjects.

“But what do we say about taking chances with our _only_ hope?” Moriarty snaps. “Seb, mark this day as the day James Moriarty steps down to _negotiate_ _with his product_.”

Moran bites his lips, and doesn’t say anything.

“For you, Sherlock, _for you._ ”


	2. Schrödinger's Flatmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty tries to protect Sherlock from John, in a way.

To pin down any concrete evidence against the M-Lab is as much of a goose-hunt as John has expected, given his understanding of Moran’s competence in _erasing_ as well as creating. The mood of the flat is of a sulky silence. John sits in his chair, which he has moved a few metres from Sherlock’s, and pictures his own arms swung around the bony shoulders, his lips soothing the knotted dark brows; whenever he _did_ that Sherlock would give him a smile, no matter what. As the current development dictates, he now contributes to nothing but the sulk, his uselessness highlighted by the harrowing distance between them.

Uselessness. _That’s a mortal sin_.

The prolonged silence of the interior is emphasised by faint but determined footsteps from the stairs. John hurries to the door, grateful for an opportunity to help somewhat, and freezes for a second at the sight of his Author.

“Nice to see you _again_ , Dr. Watson, it’s been a while, I believe.” Moriarty sounds abundantly more becoming than Mycroft does. “Although I have come for the objective of renewing _our_ friendship, surely you will not deny me some face-time with the One I adore?”

John does not answer. Various comebacks cross his mind, but he settles for holding Moriarty within the range of the fiery s-field, preferable burning a hole into that intricate mind without a compass. But Moriarty bypasses him too swiftly. John follows his heel, staying as close as possible.

_Let it burn_.

Moriarty doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention. He is, after all, quite star-struck, as manifest in the slight quiver in his voice. “Hello, Sherlock, I am your _biggest_ fan.”

Sherlock does not rise from the chair. “What is your offer?”

“Ah, I’m doing well, thank you for asking.”

“As a business man in the worst sense of the word you have come with an offer. What is the offer?”

“Oh, Sherlock, your frankness hurt me.” Moriarty’s head sways slowly in disapproval. “As much as I adore the efficiency of your beautiful mind, a hasty assessment is not always correct. What might have resembled entrepreneurship in my conducts is merely intended to pave the way for the greater quest for Truth, an endeavour that we share.”

Sherlock snarls. “I dare not agree to _that_ , esteemed Professor.”

Moriarty nods to the preferred title. “As what paves the way has now become a _fatal_ obstruction, some amends are due on my part. I owe you a thousand apologies, Sherlock.” With a few very quick paces Moriarty is suddenly leaning in Sherlock’s face. John, perceiving the proximity, recedes quietly, his fist half-clenched.

The shuffle does not go ignored by his creator. “I applaud your judgment, John, though the _damaging_ power of the s-field would undoubtedly fail your high hopes in the span of my brief visit. Nevertheless, I request that you turn it off now, and never seek to activate that horrendous device ever again, for I hereby promise to never take advantage of the sixth you-know-what; what I have come to offer is _peace_.”

“Peace is not necessarily productive, nor a _promise_ profitable.” Sherlock’s eyes sharpen. John does not like his voice there; it sounds almost like Moriarty. “You killed for _data points_. Tell me, Professor, how is your proposal supposed to convince?”

Moriarty folds his hands together with something akin to reverence. “Oh, Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , you _get_ me, but you _don’t_ get me. Yes, I orchestrated certain events, some may call them unfortunate, for the sole purpose of bringing you to your best; is it any stretch of imagination to conclude that there is nothing I would not do to _keep_ you? The threat of a menacing signal, prevalent and unchecked by your side, keeps me awake at night. And to think of the source of that offence!” He turns around to John, a dark shadow clouding his face. “For all I care, the easier way out is to throw you back into the cauldron whence you came. A few ounces of amino acid would always be far more useful and less disturbing - ”

“Stop.” Sherlock has rose to his feet, his command crisp and condescending. John loosens his fist, silently holding inside the panic and dread provoked by the possibility. And Sherlock is looking at him with a little shake of his head, as if mouthing, _no_.

_No_. As long as _we_ are here.

“But let us pay you the proper civility deserved by the Citizen you are, Dr. John Watson.” Moriarty continues. “I’m putting up with the trouble, since I have _gifted_ you to a much more meaningfully gifted mind. To demonstrate my spirit of cooperation, I am willing to issue a formal statement on the technical complications of the implants that have accidentally incited the acts of violence, which would grant the poor fellows pardon at my bitter personal cost, if you are so insistent on _justice_. This will be the most efficient neutral resolution, as you must have found out the hard way. Do we have a deal?”

“Do it.” Sherlock replies coolly.

A glint of disappointment flashes in Moriarty’s eyes, as if he has expected more. “Consider my action a declaration, Sherlock, I love you to _abstraction_ , in the most literal way. You must excuse my somewhat invasive approach - s _urveillance,_ per se, was never the intention. No. This is so beyond _watching_ you, and I imagine _you_ will be impressed by the final output.”

“How unflattering.” Sherlock says.

Moriarty winks before taking an exit. “Farewell, my dear, I believe we will meet again before the end.” He utters as he brushes past John.

\---

 

“Well, that was quite a _deus ex machina_ for the convicted.” John reclines in his chair, not in relaxation, but in emotional exhaustion. The fact that his presence did contribute to the resolution does little to elevate the anger and helplessness that’s still tugging at his stomach. “Do you believe him though?”

Against his better judgement John hopes for a _yes_. A rationalisation, a _permission_ , to switch off his invisible cell, so that he would _feel_ Sherlock again. _Damn his brilliant mind_.

Sherlock has no answer for a while. Eventually, he says, “ _Believing_ is not the issue here. His _promise_ is only as good as we make it. Moriarty is playing with the lives of many because he _can_. Make it so he _cannot_. Before that, we… stay cautious. John,” he adds in a small voice, “I would very much like to hug you right now.”

John nods, his heart sinking a little. “Right, erm, we are staying cautious, _just for now_.”

They shake hands as a good-night, the closest they can afford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Format is back! Yay!


	3. Damned Souls in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are people like John. John likes that.

“The potential for damage increases _exponentially_ with the level of brain activity.”

 

A stranger’s knee brushes with John’s as she sits down in the Jet-way, sparingly populated at this time of the day. John looks to his left. The science of deduction is not to be picked up easily, but he suspects that the young book-ish girl could be in a thinky mood. Not wanting to seem too deliberate, he pretends to be fascinated by a flashy advert on the far right, while nudging in that direction. Nevertheless the girl glares at him briefly as if offended, before whipping out a pad for perusal.

Sherlock does not see the interaction, or lack thereof. Standing down the other end of the carriage, he stares blankly at the blurrily captured vertical landscape of concrete outside of the window, the incessant propelling of his engine of a brain noisy to John’s ears.

It is well for John that what swarm the streets are basically morons. To pass over largely dormant minds for a few seconds would not qualify as a public hazard. Therefore the only thing he watches out for is one tall figure, typically a few strides ahead of him. John practises the art of never catching up.

There are days when even the very polite distance would not suffice. It’s just one of those mornings where Sherlock complains of a _headache_ , after days of neglecting sleep _and_ food – nothing unusual, John knows too well. Still, matters of the _head_ now stir up a deep-rooted dread that resides in him.

“Take a drink, that’ll help.” John slides half a glass of water over the table, the move smooth through practice, with more calm in his fingers than in his heart. “Eat something, then bed.”

Thankfully, Sherlock does not seem to have observed the effect of his wording on John as he complies. John hovers over him when he finally gets in between the sheets, their fingers intertwined.

“That’s right, shut off your brain. Sleep tight.” John watches him close his eyes. Sherlock receives a quick smooch on his forehead, and snaps open his eyes, only to see John scurrying out of the room like a little mouse. Sherlock smiles into the pillow, silently wishing it to be not just the pillow. He does not see John’s grin, or his guilt.

_How far away should I get?_

\---

 

Walking briskly through the Galaxy Academy, Professor Moriarty barely glances at anyone. Moran holds his head up in defiance, until they are back in the safely enclosed M-Lab again.

“Don’t mind the doubts from the _ignorant_ , Sebbie.” Moriarty puts a hand on the back of his engineer. “Those contracts aren't going anywhere – it’s not like they can find any alternative to _our work_ on the market.”

Moran smirks. “Oh, Jim, no, _contracts_ are not important enough to upset me. Business will return, and stock prices will pick up. As for the ignorant – ah, I pity them, yet they have the power to irritate me. When we released the statement on design failure, I knew it to be an opportunity for the dumbest person in the street to point his finger and laugh at specialists,” he growls, “when we know _exactly_ what we are doing.”

“Well said, Sebbie, well said.” Moriarty chuckles, his face turning somewhat grimmer. “And those exact same people will tremble, at the sight of our _magnum opus_ to come. Now, back to being specialists. There were some problems with the analysis, you said?”

\---

 

Released along with the M-Lab statement are three ex-convicts, which is very welcomed news to John, since disturbances in the neuro-engineering industry are not of his concern. The paperwork for Sarah~074 takes a more complicated route than for the Citizens, and John is more than happy to help out, since he can’t shake off the feeling that he was, at least partially, responsible for her whole ordeal in the first place.

Also, he needs to get out of the flat _without Sherlock_ more often.

“It’s all finished today.” John announces with glee as he shrugs off his jacket. “Von Herder is doing fine in the readjustment programme, Baldwin is back in school while seeing a therapist, and Sarah is… well, out, finally.”

Sherlock looks up. “You’re saying she is not getting the help she needs.”

John huffs. “There are no funds or programmes in place for… you know. I hope she’s feeling better, anyway.”

“Hoping is hardly _helping_ , John.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, to John’s amusement. “Though the subject is generally not my major concern, people tend not to _feel better_ when I show up at their place. Seeing that my profession is consultation, not consolation, I should hand this over to you. Oh, tell her to send the bills to the Professor, should she need _professional_ investment.”

John resents the power of expression of the body language, for he is now deprived and finds no replacement. When Sherlock says such things he ought to muss his hair, kiss his lips until his eyes glitter, then mutter soft things into his ears like “Wrong, Sherlock, you always make me happy”. These words would lose their sincerity when uttered from a distance, so John has to think of something else to say when he kisses Sherlock on the hand like a stiff-lipped baron from the 1800s. “Your kiss alone generates enough power to crash implants of metal. Bear that in mind.”

Oopsie. _Now it_ sounds _like a stiff-lipped baron from the 1800s, an un-romantic one, too._

It seems to suit Sherlock well, though, since he is beaming widely at the reminder. “Oh, what a pity that I can’t just go around and give away free kisses.”

“You’d better not!” John laughs. “I’ll be back soon.”

\---

 

“Dr. Watson!”

“John, please.” John smiles, stepping into the tiny quarter as Sarah makes room for two chairs amid the clutter. Even in the poor lighting, her eyes are shining brighter than when John first met her in a much more undesirable location. Her face is also plusher, properly bringing out the elegant piercing on her nose. _Must be the terminative_. John coughs uncomfortably, while remembering to shift his chair a little bit further away. Sarah squints her eyes slightly, but says nothing. John wishes he could explain, but at the moment he can only initiate a more mundane conversation.

“So, um, how have you been?”

“Nothing much going on, really, but better. It’s better to be… you know, not dead.” Sarah throws her head back, leaning against her forearm. The easy openness draws John in, as he subconsciously leans towards her. _Still 0.5m apart? Check._

“Sarah, I am truly sorry for what you went through. There has to be a way to get back from the M-Lab what they took from you, and we’ll work on that.” John hesitates mentioning the deceased boyfriend, the _victim_ , and decides against it; but Sarah laughs, as if having seen through his mind.

“Oh, don’t bother, Dr. _Watson_. He didn’t treat me that well, I just put up with him because an Identity someday wouldn’t hurt. We’ve had our share of petty fights, for sure, but oh deary, to actually _murder_ him…” John suppresses his hand reaching out to her shoulder. Sarah wipes her hand over her face and goes on. “Anyway, joke’s on them. If I really were to kill him I would have stabbed him through the heart, not by some elaborate planned-out slow poisoning. I like direct.”

John looks mildly intrigued.

Clone marriage was legalised, he recalls, to enable the implementation of the controversial _Build-Your-Own_ programme, whose initial success soon curiously fell, when people started ranting that the spouse they had _designed_ for themselves turned out _not_ to be what they wanted after all. The programme went dormant, while the legislation stuck, granting Citizen identity to any fabricant married to a pureblood, taking their family name. Indeed, without the permanent recognition the magnitude of ex-spouse _termination_ would be too scandalising. He shudders. There are many lives brought into this world for a cause much more twisted than his own.

Sarah eyes his slightly horrified expression with uncertainty. “Oh, sorry, that probably doesn’t sound too nice. I just never figured out why they had me do the thing, you know, all the details.”

_To make the case interesting_ , John swallows a lump in his throat. “All right, good question. You like puzzles? Solving mysteries?”

Sarah looks at him in confusion. “Nah, I can’t put up with crosswords. Never read anything with numbers. Hell, I don’t even like _reading_ at all. To put it the vulgar way, I was wired to blow… not minds.” She says lazily, with a low chuckle.

It suddenly dawns on John that everybody is _different_. For example, the s-field could well be _protecting_ , instead of _harming_ , another mind. In the euphoria of enlightenment he grabs Sarah by the wrist, pulling her up. “Come closer,” he whispers, “I have something for you.”

Now they are standing only inches apart, almost brushing shoulders. Sarah’s breathing is sharp and hurried in anticipation and bewilderment, before gradually calming down. “Oh,” she giggles, scratching her hair. “Something happened. I don’t even have words for it, but it feels pretty nice, like, my mind has emptied out, and everything’s clearer. What is it?”

“I know.” John fishes the generator out of his pocket, a grin on his face. He has missed being able to _help_. “I know what it feels like to have a chip in your brain; I had _five_.”

\---

 

“I will come around again, promise.”

“Please do, John, it’s really great talking to you.” Sarah waves at him before closing the door, a slight shade of pink over her face, probably from the laughs they’ve shared over questionably appropriate social issues.

Walking away from the unhappy-looking neighbourhood, John takes his own pace. There is no need to either catch up or trail behind. He briefly wonders whether he should _stay_.

Because this is _far away_ enough from 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. John _Three-Continent_ Watson strikes again. Sorry (not sorry).  
>  1\. Intelligence and level of brain activity are not the same thing. I’m just giving in to the simplification that smart minds are _more likely_ to be busy.  
>  2\. Anthem of the Build-Your-Own programme: _Do you wanna build a husband? It doesn’t have to be a husband_. Sorry (not sorry)!


	4. Interlude: The World Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two more excerpts from John’s logs.

_Saturday, 21 Apr 2896_

_My head is still ringing from what is called a night out. The proper term is a_ hangover _, I believe, something I know of but have never experienced. To co-habit with Sherlock Holmes first and always does have its downsides; there isn’t much of what normal people would call fun. Not that I was wired_ normal _to begin with, ha. But Sarah is fun. She taught me how to dance, actually, a more engaging form of music appreciation. As the crowd drove us closer on the floor, the heat from her body became more exciting than the crazy beats. I’ve really missed being that_ close _to anyone at all. Anyway, the whole night was a bit of a blur – hopefully there wasn’t anything overly inappropriate!_

Alone in the living room, John reviews his log entry from last week with a deep frown. He is reminded that the narrative is not completely dishonest - Sarah _is_ fun, and a few touches of human warmth are never not appreciated. Still, he has aimed for suggestive but not too lascivious too soon, lest the deliberation becomes too painfully obvious. The absence of a reaction from Sherlock is slightly disconcerting. John really doesn’t know what he should have expected. Did he read it? _Maybe not, but I did leave it out on the coffee table_. Did he buy it? _He should_.

 

_Wednesday, 25 Apr 2896_

_Went to Sarah’s place again because she’s upset. Not that she has to be upset for me to want to talk to her. She’s always so understanding and relatable, unlike a certain flatmate._

John pauses. It sounds too mean even on a screen. Is this too much? _Too much_ is the way to go. He rubs his fingers over his eyes for a second, before tapping on.

 

 _…Though she, likewise, makes jokes about my choice of outfit, which I don’t mind. I’ve caught myself thinking about what it would be like to live with her. Less thrills, perhaps, but definitely more peace. Knowing that she was_ designed _to be easily affectionate doesn’t mean I appreciate the quality any less. She makes a great care-giver; a great mother, someday, maybe. Now parenthood is a wholly foreign territory for my wretched self due to the lack of experience or an installed module; it’s yet too early to dwell on that. At the current stage I’m only slightly anxious to see how our next date would go._

That should be enough. Quickly hitting the ‘save’ button, John foregoes a final spell-check to spare himself the cringing. He tosses the log-pad onto the sofa without switching it off, before going up to his bedroom with heavy footsteps and a heavier heart.

_Read it, Sherlock, for me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just blowing holes in my own ship, no biggie.


	5. What’s in a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name Watson is common but not ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down after the Interlude. You’ve been warned.

“I feel stupid.” Moran whispers at a single _0_ on his screen.

The expression itself is just one variation of frustration, characteristic of the M-Lab recently, where the five dead monitors have been removed, leaving behind their respective data storage units. Moran’s work station by itself does not occupy all the extra space, but the litter of foodstuff packages and crumpled blankets do, suggesting a life that revolves around work. And such Work is not typically pleasurable or smooth, as evident in the frequent outbursts.

Moriarty turns his head. Something in Moran’s voice tells him that this time, it’s _different_. The admission is not a resignation in the face of too formidable a task; rather, it sounds like a _surrender_ , the yielding of one’s pride, as insignificant, to the transcendental. Trepidation rises in his veins. _No rush_. He clears his throat and keeps his voice low.

“What is it, Sebbie?”

“I don’t even know… anymore.” Moran’s pupils are dark and deep in the glow of the screen. “Back in the days when Johnny boy was still around, I added _this_ , the infamously long-standing conjecture of Dirichlet geometry, to the basic model-testing questions as a personal joke, then forgot all about it. And now _it_ has given me the answer. The answer is _false_.”

Moriarty’s exhale is more or less relieved. _Not yet_. “Take a break, Sebbie, then check it over. I’m sure there is some mis-”

“Oh, no, Jim, I know what you’re thinking.” The glare in Moran’s eyes verges on maniacal. “At first I thought the _0_ translates to _unable to solve at end of runtime_ , which I expected. But it would take more than 8 seconds to reach that conclusion, so I had the line-by-line process printed out. Lo and behold -”

With one tap of Moran’s finger, Moriarty is staring at the _analytical_ refutation of what has fascinated mathematicians for centuries. He remembers reading about this conjecture, then promised to become a theorem, at an age when he was still interested in the pure and lofty. The intricate logic, arduous but adequately expressed in Moran’s choice of programming language, stirs up unspeakable fear and excitement inside of him. He strokes his chin with perfectly calm fingers.

_This is too big, too soon._

“8 seconds is what it takes, huh.”

“Well, yes, I can try to clean up some of the commands in between,” Moran scrolls through his codes in a hurry, “but that probably won’t speed it up by much, since it doesn’t even employ the calculating module. Jim, you know this is definitely not a glossed update of the exhaustive brute-force cracking from antiquity, that simply doesn’t work with the higher-order Dirichlet space -”

“ _Stop_.” Face turning stern, Moriarty covers his hand over his engineer’s, who freezes under his touch. “Sebastian Moran, listen to me.”

“For more than 80 _years_ renowned scholars of various disciplines, a few of them judged to be geniuses by my own person, had laboured in vain. Yet today in our very own M-Lab, I have witnessed the glorious birth of a definitive proof. Congratulations, my dearest. You’ve made it.”

Moran leans into the luscious kiss, momentarily dazzled by the sensation and the little speech reeking of emotions. _What an occasion indeed_. When they have pulled apart, the engineer’s mind immediately darts back to the more technical issues.

“To be exact, I didn’t _make_ it, it did the work on its own, which is why I feel doubly stupid. Every single bit of this model is my own design, yet I do not understand it. I didn't even feed any established theorem into it; _it_ actively sought the related information via the Net, and made all the connections. It is _learning_ , and it is _thinking_. Why does it sound a little scary?”

“Fear is a natural component of awe.” Moriarty asserts. “Isn’t this what we have aimed for? Distilled genius, a brilliant brain in machine form, complete in functionality yet delightfully free from human errors.” His gaze drifts back to the display, a budding Superior Reasoning System in codes. “To negate a classical conjecture as the first tangible output is quite fitting; it’s the announcement of an era, a turn of tides. But I shall prefer future results to be more _practical_.”

Moran blushes a little at the thought of unfinished work. “Um, yeah, so far I’ve only tested yes-or-no questions of abstraction, there are a few more algorithms to fix up for a stable performance in the fuzzier real-life scenarios. Also, the user interface at this stage is probably quite daunting to anyone but myself…”

“Yes, user-friendliness would be of utmost importance, as we’re about to test it in a place far enough, in the hands of people dumb enough.” Moriarty chuckles at Moran slightly opening his lips, “Yes, Sebbie, the current progress is permitting us to release an unmarked _beta_ version ahead of schedule.” He sighs, as if suddenly worn out by the high and the future prospects of commitment. “In this celebratory moment I find myself wanting the attendance of a third.”

Half a smirk twirls the corner of Moran’s mouth. “Too bad, our very own Watson is banned from the party for STUPIDITY.”

Moriarty turns his head in amused confusion. “What? I was thinking Sherlock, he shall not be denied the adoration of his brain-child, literally. Ah, that _will_ happen.” He announces. “But now that you’ve spoken of the dummy – why, I’ve almost forgotten all about him, though apparently he did transfer enough data to lay the foundation for this monumental work. A tolerable servant, to be fair, if not faithful to the end. Then, again, _faith_ is one of those subjective, ill-defined things.”

“As is the concept of _enough_.” Moran sinks into his chair in contemplation. “In retrospect, James, I think I was not exempt from the classical pitfall of equating more _data_ with more _truth_. In the last few months it was precisely the absence of distraction by more incoming information that enabled me to focus on the inherent relationships, attempt at a mechanistic model, and work my way up from there. Not to mention the final turn of events!” He cries with glee. “Do you know what the rarest data points from Sherlock are? _Sentiment-impaired decisions_ , dear Jim. The existence of that precious sample has provided the basis for an estimation of the unwanted background noise, thus clearing it away from our model.”

“Hmm, Sebbie, now you’ve put it that way, I’m starting to think of our dummy as _exceptional_. His actions have, ironically, stayed in concert with our intentions, despite the unorthodox motivations of his own. That’s what I call _exceeding expectations_ , dear Watson.”

“It’s always a confined space in which he may wiggle, physically or mentally. At the end of the day he is only a _device_ of ours.” Moran chortles. “On an unimportant note - you know, I’ve always wondered why you kept the name John Watson. Though common enough, it might have helped Mycroft along his quest for the original. I mean, we could have come up with another name, something like Osmond Sacker, just to throw him off.”

“Oh come on, who would want to live with _Osmond Sacker_?” Moriarty laughs heartily. “But for a more serious rationale: do you still remember why we reached so far back in time?”

“To keep it _natural_ ,” Moran mutters.

“Indeed. If history ever taught us anything, it’s that deterministic designs are prone to fail creative tasks, while a healthy degree of uncontrolled random oscillation has the capacity of breaking up deadlocks. On these grounds I have summoned a pristine pureblood from the distant past, uncontaminated by the wilful conditioning of this age, to mingle with the most _logical_ yet _unpredictable_ mind of our time, and see what becomes. Call me sentimental, but despite the enhancements we made to him I preserved his name John Watson, as a testimony of his surprising nature. And we have been surprised, at every turn. I wonder what he is up to now?” Moriarty wistfully gazes at a corner that once held much of his attention. “Sometimes I miss the monitors.”

“Living underneath a shield like a cute little tortoise, most likely.”

“Ugh, that _shield_ – at any rate, _I_ reached out to _him_ under the impression that we still need Sherlock’s brain, our _prototype_ , working, which may no longer be true, given today’s development.” Moriarty turns his face to the automatically generated proof again, his eyes focused on somewhere in a distance. “On second thought, let’s keep Sherlock for just a little longer; the original should always provide checks and validations. As for little Watson - I never bothered to hold him true to his end of the deal, you know. There always are more important matters to keep my eyes on.”

“The only way to find out is to _push the button_.” Moran says drily.

“Oh, should I?” Eyes suddenly sparkling, Moriarty seems enthralled by the idea. “But still, we won’t be able to find out _immediately_. That’s where I come to _really_ miss the monitors.”

\---

        

“This is really quite neat.” Sarah is lying on the sofa, her eyes intent with wonder on the S-field generator between her fingers. “Does it ever run out of battery?” She asks, a tinge of worry in her voice.

John smiles at her. To have another hold the _shield_ would not be a wise idea; the frivolous might just switch it off as a silly joke. But Sarah – or Sherlock – is not the frivolous kind. She needs a new, bigger sofa, so John may join her there. In that case, they definitely need a bigger flat, with a proper living room, perhaps. John glances around again. His experience with Scotland Yard has confirmed to him that the installed modules in his brain would suffice for – exceed – the working knowledge of any _real_ doctor. With a doctor’s salary he really could be building a new _home_. Nothing as nice as 221B, that’s a given, but he can do _something_. If Sarah would let him. For now, he answers, “Oh no, it doesn’t even need battery. Anthea told me about the science once, but I can never remember that sort of stuff.”

Sarah’s eyes narrow slightly. “Anthea who?”

_Jealousy_? John can’t hold back a small laughter, it’s a strangely gratifying sensation. Stranger still, he finds himself resenting the fact that Sherlock has not been showing it as of late. He clears his throat. “She’s just an associate of a…colleague, who helped me out. I don't even know whether she has a family name or not.” He doesn’t know whether _Mycroft_ would qualify as a _colleague_ either, for the lack of a better description.

The subject of family name makes Sarah very quiet, and John regrets it immediately. The sensitivity of it has always eluded him, despite his own actual clone origin. But Sarah doesn’t know _yet_. He wonders if there ever will be a good time for Dr. Watson to become John~001. _Oh, he’s done that once, and Sherlock didn't mind…_

A bittersweet reminiscence swells on his tongue. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and fumbles for something to continue the current conversation. “Well, erm, the chips that I’ve had are some complicated business, really long story.”

“I would love to hear the whole of it sometime.” Sarah flashes him a smile as she gets up, handing the generator back to John. John pockets it carefully. “I also have a toy of my own to show you. Nothing as fancy as that one, but peculiar of myself, nonetheless.”

She soon re-emerges from her bedroom, holding another palm-sized device with one button. John stares astounded at what he knows about but has never seen with his own eyes.

“This is my _feature_ ,” Sarah says, somewhat solemnly. “Press it, and I’ll be _completely submissive_ for a _random_ length of time. Could be half a minute, or an entire week at the most. Does it sound ridiculous? It was a hit on the market. Well, _we_ were a hit on the market. Apparently, people want the control, but to _always_ be hearing _yes_ would be _boring_.”

John thumbs the cold surface of the console, engraved by a corporate logo and a serial number. _It’s proven_ \- _randomness makes primates want more_ , somebody’s cool analytical voice echoes in his head. It could be either Sherlock or Moriarty, he doesn’t know. Clones in the labour force have always been made totally submissive, but the element of randomness is about _fun_. John’s gaze flickers between the girl with a sweet smile that he has looked after like family, and the strangely heavy device in his palm.

A device with a serial number, that’s what _we_ are.

“John, I don't think I’ve ever talked about what my job was _supposed_ to be. Are you in for a really long story?”

John nods, while lightly placing the console on the coffee table far enough from himself. He detests the feel of it, although it’s not materially much different from his own gadget. “Yes, as much as you care to talk about.”

Ironical enough, the completeness of what John has learned about Sarah’s personal history via the Clone Control System and Sherlock’s deductions in the course of the investigation would probably exceed her own knowledge. _But this is important._ Her own story is important.

“Ahem – all right, I’ll just put things very frankly. We – my batch – were produced to be lovers, or escorts, for the clients of our _mother corporate_.”

Sarah carries on after a small pause, visibly relieved by the absence of a frown from John. “To serve that purpose, we were fashioned after various female sex symbols of the last decade. But you won’t tell by looking at any one of us, because all the physical traits are subtly blended, and everyone is a unique combination. Well, except me.” She shrugs. “I was a glitch in the breeding-pool, an accidental twin of Sarah~073. Whom you would now need to pay a hefty sum to have one dinner with, by the way.”

While the cuteness of pureblood twins or triplets are still to be flailed over, exact likeness in clones is deemed _lazy design_ conserved for the lowest class of manual workers only. In those factories, nobody needs to watch the _creepy_ matrices of identical fabricants doing identical work, anyway. Sarah’s calm narrative keeps John’s mind away from the grimmer images. “Twin fetish is an entirely different market, so I was announced _extra_ and ready to be _recycled_ , without being awakened in the first place.”

John reaches for her hand. What he had read from the Control System is suddenly more macabre when told this way. No, _nobody is extra_.

“Maybe it should have stayed that way. Funny enough, the recycling process for fabricants with embeds is a bit troublesome, so the technician in charge figured that it’s less work to simply take me for himself, against the protocol. I dare say _pity_ was not a part of his consideration. He wasn’t the greatest guy, but he had the decency to call himself my _boyfriend_ instead of _owner_ , for which I am grateful. On the other hand he also liked to brag about _saving my life_ , which I don’t agree with, at all. I never opted to come into this world, _not in this way_. He was also quite fond of the button, so I don’t blame Mr. Holmes for believing that I would kill him for it. There were times I really _could have_.” For the first time John witnesses a glare in her eyes that recedes quickly. “Oh, but how? I was wired to be a pretty puddle of vanity, nothing more. It was the hope of an Identity, however wishful or distant, that bore me through the days. I have no way of knowing, but I imagine that Life must be different for other people, anyone who has a family name instead of a serial number.”

Sarah finishes her reflection with a long exhale, her face slightly flushed. “That’s the whole of it. Sorry, I don’t know what got me, that was way more than what I’m normally comfortable with. But you’re a doctor, John, you must have seen a lot of broken people.” She smiles, apologetically. “I hope it doesn’t bother you much?”

John really hasn’t seen _a lot of_ broken people, he can barely handle himself as is. Without anything good to say he wraps an arm around her shoulders. With a little hesitation she leans into the warmth, her hair slightly tickling to John’s jaw line. John’s eyes wander around their humble surroundings, and he finds words again.

“Sarah, I don’t know about whether it’s a good idea to come into this world _at all_ , I’ve often caught myself wondering the same. But now that you are in it, trust me, you deserve all the good things.”

_Yes_. She deserves a better sofa, a better flat, a _real_ home. A family name. A _family_. The console shredded down the drain, an Identity in her wrist.

_So does Sherlock_. For the irritating, arrogant git John knows him to be, he still deserves better things, not an ambiguous cloud of physical harm hanging around him. It suddenly occurs to John that without Moran’s dedication to hacking he would have no family name to give, and what would _that_ be like? Sherlock has one though. _John Holmes_ … John blinks the wanton thought away, and holds Sarah closer to him. She closes her eyes in content, the rhythm of her pacified heartbeat, sheltered under a shared signal, echoes John’s own.

 

_How does Sarah Watson sound to you?_ He withholds the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Dirichlet geometry_ , along with related jargons, is my own make-up, no real study exists at least currently. Think of it as super-fancy non-Euclidean geometry.  
> 2\. Wikipedia says that ACD’s Professor Moriarty has a PhD in non-Euclidean geometry, but I can’t find support in the text. Citation, anyone?  
> 3\. IRL brilliance in mathematics does not always translate to success elsewhere; it’s just me being partial to the gross simplification of it as a proxy for general mental prowess.


	6. If ( ) break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock will always have his work, if nothing else.

“Do you prefer Wagner or Mendelssohn, John? Actually, Wagner would not be a good idea – the oft-misperceived grim opera has the wedding’s guests murdered and the bride abandoned.”

John stares. Without waiting for an answer Sherlock lifts the antique to his chin. The melody by one of the Old Masters is brought to life by his bow, the felicity of the tune painfully dull to John’s ears. The names from the last millennium have become so distant they may well be fictional, but their works, having condensed into a sort of indispensable cultural preserve, are ever present. Nevertheless, it’s quite impossible not to be dull after a thousand years, as it is impossible for Sherlock not to be blunt, in his own way. John swallows. He has had this coming; yet he tries to slow it down, if just by a little.

“So, what’s this about?”

“Oh, nothing special. You have a _marriage_ on your mind, and I am helping with the – _music appreciation_.” Sherlock halts his bow, a roughness in his voice. “Come on, it’s not your part to look surprised. Since you have gone to great lengths to make your intention clear, it would be an insult _not_ to pick up on it. Still, I was hoping that you would tell me first, as far as common decency goes. Oh, forget it. I’m not the sort to care about common decency, you know that.”

John directs his eyes to a dirty spot on the floor. He did go to great lengths for it. He had continued working with Sherlock on a few cases, but little else. Those weren’t _his_ cases anymore, and with the apparent neutrality with the M-Lab, John cannot think of himself as anything more than a mobile source of radiation. The distance between them grew daily, and Sherlock seemed to be _understanding_. By himself, John has weighed the two sides of the attachment over and over, and concluded that he must vouch for _safety first_.

_This is a breaking point._

“I was going to.” He says, meeting the confronting furore in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Then say it.” Sherlock’s voice has returned to its icy state. The delicate bow, now pointed to the floor, trembles in his clench.

_We should start seeing other people._

_It’s not you, it’s me._

_I hope we can still be friends?_

_Oh, screw it._

Of all the pre-defined available options, John finds nothing right to say. _What people usually say_ are too farcical. _He’s Sherlock, he deserves better_.

“You deserve better.” John says eventually. It’s not how he wanted it to come out, but this should do. _And this is true._ “Don't mind me, I’m packing.”

“Don’t tell me how to live my life.” Sherlock snaps at him, not for the first time.

_But it’ll be the last time, hopefully._

\---

 

John leaves the flat with a single duffel bag, the same way he came, when the prospects were slightly different. Actually it’s the exact polar opposite. Not too long ago he had been sent to this designated point of operation as a clone under every single possible control; now he _is_ a free Citizen in _almost_ every way, and he can be anywhere – _except_ _here_. The irony defeats the joy of liberation that should be by a huge margin. He clutches the log-pad in his jacket, the only possession he really cares about. Even _this_ , what had stayed true to him through the darkest hours, is contaminated by _lies_ now.

_You just can’t have nice things, can you._

A song on strings that John has not heard before fades into the distance. Sherlock did not turn around on his way out, and John tries not to think too much about the emotions behind it. _Music appreciation_ is not his strong suit, after all. His legs carry him forward dutifully and numbly. His hand brushes against the other gadget of personal importance, a paradox in his pocket, a saviour and a destroyer. Suddenly he feels an impulse to take it out, turn it off, and see what fate awaits. Curse it, smash it, be rid of an artificial _safety_ that keeps him away from what’s brilliant and _his_.

 _But no_. Not when he can still do some _good_ in this world.

\---

 

Sherlock is plucking at the strings of the instrument across his chest, when a tapping umbrella comes through the door.

“To _congratulate_ you on today’s event would be heartless on my part,” Mycroft moves the other chair closer and takes his seat, “nevertheless I am relieved, in all honesty.”

“Your heartlessness serves you well,” Still lying on his back, Sherlock’s fingers shape a few dissonant chords, “the inanimate should always serve as a more reliable companion than anything with a _heart_. I am humoured by the fact that what is _designed for me_ should no longer find me tolerable, it’s almost flattering.” He sits up suddenly. “But it’s not wholly unexpected, that as soon as he comes into contact with other human beings, he will realise that _I_ am the most insufferable of all in the Solar system. If it’s in his DNA to want _normalcy_ , a peaceful family life, then be it.”

The constriction of Mycroft’s lower lip is of doubt and vague regret, but he loosens it quickly for a half-smile. “I applaud your swift and sound judgement. On a merrier note, may I introduce you to a murder case in the territory of Nea So Copros?”

“The Asian Pacific, not my usual area.” Sherlock reaches over for the violin case. “But do go on.”

“Sung-min Bae, the third-generation owner of Bae’s Deli, is found dead in his office this morning. In the course of the past three weeks his sizeable, but previously unknown business has swallowed up all other restaurants in the municipality and beyond, acquiring a domestic market share on par with that of the state-owned eatery chain. Rumour has it that the Copros is not entirely thrilled about the ambitious expansion, hence the international attention.” Mycroft sets down a memory stick labelled _S.B.U_. “But that’s just one of the rumours. Some preliminary research has been done for you, to save you the while.”

“ _Sensitive but unclassified_ , which means _of zero_ _importance_.” Sherlock casually releases a few images of meticulously arranged meals from the inside, along with the gorier shots from the scene. “Hmm, since when did you start caring about _kimchi_? I’ve always thought your interest would be more heavily rooted in the _confection_ industry.”

“And here we have a perfect example of an unnecessary simplification of the rich and varied Korean culinary traditions that’s reflective of a typical Western rudeness.” Mycroft announces, though he looks quite pleased by the remark. “In a foreign culture, careless choice of words may provoke more unfriendly reactions than your usual, brother mine. One last suggestion – given the unofficial status of our involvement, I would advise against activating my Identity, since it’s more likely to hinder than help. Act like the average tourist, would you?”

“ _Our_ involvement?” Sherlock squints his eyes. “Oh, right, your fancy and my legwork. Worry not, dear brother, I am the professional _unofficial_ , and have plenty of rudeness at my disposal to reinforce that.”

“Good. Given the _freshness_ of the case you may dispatch _immediately_ if you wish to,” Mycroft leans back in the chair, tipping his chin in satisfaction. “It should keep you occupied for half a month.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Difficult writing is good exercise. Why is breakup harder than porn? (Oopsie. The fic is gen but the notes are my rambling space, sorry kids!)  
> 2\. Apologies to the Cloud Atlas fandom – here is where crossover happens, but just a little bit. To the rest of us: Nea So Copros is basically dystopian Korea, projected here to be much bigger (and weirder).


	7. Endif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John proposes, and Moriarty christens a new product.

A fancy restaurant still seems the only place fit for the occasion, the background chatter would conveniently drown out any awkwardness that might ensue. John fondles the other piece of metal, pinned in a small fancy box, in his pocket.

A ring, on the _ring_ finger, is the only metallic accessory that instead of indicating clonehood, _cancels_ it. Sarah glows tonight. Her long dress falls gracefully on the chair that John draws out for her, and she directs her somewhat mischievous smile to him. There is no denial that her nose piercing is artfully placed in the most aesthetically pleasing way, but John still wants to have its implication erased. His own slab of the terminative, concealed under the one nice shirt he has, feels cold and unrelenting.

“Nice spot, huh?”

“Right, I hope it’s good enough.” _Small talk first? No, get to the point, sooner the better_. John feels the hand in his pocket dampening. “Sarah, there is something I need to say, I’ve meant to say it for a long time.”

Sarah is genuinely taken aback. “Gee, for a long time? What is it?”

“Umm, right, I know we haven’t even been together for that long, still - ”

At this precise moment John’s doubts resurface again. _Is this right, does it work, is it even a good idea?_ He has no one for a second opinion now. _This is it_. Get on with the little speech, he has written it out in his head too many times. He takes out the little box and takes in a deep breath.

“Sarah, you said once that you never opted to come into this world. Neither did I. My very existence in the first place has caused you much pain and sorrow, and there could be no apology enough for that. But your forgiveness, your company, have given me life, kept me right. I cannot tell you how much – you mean to me, though I do not feel deserving of it in the slightest. From this day on I swear to keep you out of harm’s way, with all that I am, all that I am capable of giving, if you’d let me. Will you marry me, Sh-Sarah?”

It’s natural to be nervous, _shows how serious I am_ , John assures himself. Sarah is not Sherlock; it’s not like she would catch every slip of the tongue. She does cover her hand over her mouth, as ordinary people are supposed to; her pupils dilate, but of shock, not of passion. When she puts her hand down, she moves it over John’s hand over the little box, and squeezes gently.

_That’s not a_ yes.

“John, do you remember the first time we met?”

John swallows at the uneasy reflection. “Yes, we visited you in the…for the investigation.”

“That was when I saw _you_ first.” Sarah says fondly. “But I’ve met Mr. Holmes before that. Well, he went after me, to be exact.”

_Dear Lord, why does everything have to be about Sherlock Holmes?_ John draws back his hand and rocks a little in his chair, irritated. But it _was_ how he met Sarah, precisely, so he allows himself to indulge in a conversation about an earlier, darker, but also happier time. “What about him?”

Sarah’s smile is one of amusement and empathy. “John, let me tell you what I saw. My first impression of Mr. Holmes was not exactly pleasant. Granted, it has to do with the fact that he thought I was a murderer at the time, correctly.”

“No you’re not.”

Sarah nods in appreciation as she continues. “But when he is with you! John, you should see how he grins like an idiot when you say the daftest things. The way he looks at you – that’s how every girl wants to be looked at, and John, you’re not giving me that.”

All the moments that John has stored away are now erupting under the gentle poke of these words. He is petrified in his seat. Of course he knows that _look_. It was all he had, in a time when holding hands could be dangerous. _To Sherlock_ , that was. But Sherlock never stopped reaching out to him, it was always John who pulled away, and away, until they got too far apart. He sniffles. _This is a rotten idea._ “Well, I, um -”

“By design, I don’t have much of a mind, so I only have my heart to follow. I am no detective, but I can see things. I don't know what’s happened between you two since then, but at least _you_ are not over it. John, you are not proposing a _marriage_. You’re offering me a family name with a side of pity, because that’s what I need, and you’re right. I do want a family name, and I might even _need_ pity, but I don't want it. What I want, you can never deliver.”

“Sarah, I- um, I’ll shut up now.”

Across the table, Sarah folds her hands in front of her, leaning to John with soft eyes. “John, you are my hero, but you do not love me, and I know you’re not the sort to put me down with a laugh, saying that _love_ is too much to ask for my kind -”

“No, Sarah, please, never say that.”

“Then save yourself from the fakery of a happy life, because we all deserve the _real_ thing, don’t you think?” Sarah’s eyes are gleaming. She pushes the little box lightly back in John’s direction, “I can be overreaching, but you may want to consider swapping this for a different _size_.”

John’s fingers linger on the box. That prospect appears to be more fearful than what he went through this evening, but he is surprisingly calm now.

“Sarah, I owe you too many apologies and a really, really long story.” John lifts her hand to place a kiss, a thing he would start doing again. “Thank you for – everything. Whoever deserves you out there, they are a lucky bastard.”

“Then hold on to what’s already yours, Dr. Watson. You deserve it.” Sarah grins, raising her glass.

\---

 

_It’s not in your DNA to run away, John Watson._

 

John oscillates outside of 221B. There is no music, no questionable gunshots, nothing out of place. In fact, it’s too quiet, leaving him brooding, wrestling with his own words. He still can’t find them, but somehow he’s confident that words will come, when he finds Sherlock. He takes the stairs. There is no Sherlock; instead, he hears the softer shuffling of a female minion from the bedroom.

“Anthea!” John calls out, his chest heaving. “Where is Sherlock?”

Anthea turns to him with some neatly folded clothes in her hand. “Mr. Holmes the junior has set out on a field mission to Neo-Seoul, Dr. Watson. I am just collecting a few necessities. You may wait for his anticipated return in two weeks here,” she eyes the duffel bag in John’s hand, “or, you may _join_ him.”

John blinks. The vast Asian corporate-state forms a part of his _background_ , where he is supposed to have been stationed for three years in the aftermath of the Great Unrest. The jet-streets of Neo-Seoul and a fragmented grasp of the language are as familiar to him as any installed module.

Also, incidentally, signals from the M-Lab do not reach that far.

_Two weeks would feel like forever._

A faint hope rises inside of him, and John shrugs it off. “Well, I’m all packed and ready to go.”

\---

 

“And to think that we doubted its real-life performance!” Moriarty exclaims, his exuberant face lit by the multiple graphs of upward trends in front of him. “Oh, beautiful, beautiful. Isn’t this the most fantastic _beta_ run one could hope for?”

“As they say, if one can make it in the Copros, one can make it anywhere.” Moran turns from the interface still labelled S. R. S., the triumph evident in his lips. “Please, stop saying _it_ ; we need a name, a really good one.”

“Yes, a name, worthy of its nature. Hmm.” Moriarty muses, falling silent.

“Mind Palace?” Moran tosses in.

“No,” Moriarty cuts sharply, “that notion resembles a database only, but _this_ is something active, operational and functioning on its own. Ah.” He jumps, “We shall name it…M &M.”

Moran spins away from the bench in resignation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, come on, it’s our initials! What name can be more fitting?”

Moran sighs of exasperation. “On the up side, an easy name would make for easy marketing. On the down side, NO.”

Moriarty chuckles, putting his fingers into his engineer’s thick hair. “Ah, Sebbie, do I not sympathise with the gross injustice done by such a childish-sounding name to the power of the essence of _genius_ that will change the world? But it’s not _just_ our initials, as much as I would like it to be. Allow the less sophisticated to read it however they want, but the more thoughtful should come to understand what it truly stands for: _Minas Morgul_ , my kind of palace.”

Moran looks up, his frown softening. “Ohh, I like _that_.”

“What was formerly _Tower of the Rising Moon_ has now revealed its majestic true form, to serve a higher purpose than looking pretty. You’ll love it, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispers the name like a secret, “ _ithil nín_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. Feedbacks are very important for me. Leave a comment, and I’ll write you a (weird) poem. C.f. the end of the prequel.  
> 1\. Sarah is me. Anthea is me. Every shipper is me. Sorry – not sorry for the melodrama, folks!  
> 2\. Any actual programmer reading this (hi!) may want to look at the chapter titles.  
> 3\. So they eloped to Korea and lived happily ever after… but no, there’s more to it because I am a masochist.  
> 4\. A hundred years down the road people will reference Tolkien like the Bible. *wanders into Tolkien-land* Minas Ithil, a fortress built by Isildur (the dude who didn’t throw the Ring into the fire and caused 6 movies, bless him), was renamed Minas Morgul, Tower of Sorcery, when captured by Sauron’s forces. Shit got so corrupted that the place was ruled unfit to be lived in even many years after Sauron’s defeat. *wanders back* And yes, Moriarty speaks Sindarin (something I’m jealous of) because he’s a nerd. (Me too, can you tell?) Ithil nín is supposed to mean moon of mine in case you’re wondering.  
> 5\. Because I’m a confectionary aficionado: M&M the chocolate actually stands for Mars and Murries, the latter affiliated to Hershey’s. The more you know! (Information courtesy of Wikipedia)

**Author's Note:**

> CONCRIT PLEASE


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